Kerouac's not here. Anhedonic gray day in Lowell. River fog occupied the campus. You sitting on a bench in your long black wool coat with your piercing dark eyes and irresistible mouth. We both had a similar strain of rabies-like-depression trying to kill us while it ravenously sought another host. And so we soon infected each other because there was no choice. The Hunger. The music you gave me to listen to was an infiltration. Your quiet scratching at the door of my room sealed my fate. I became a zombie of some kind and remained so for another many years thereafter.
Mr. Hanh says, to love without knowing how to love wounds the person we love. I've got all these silent days in which to learn but I'm not sure anything is happening.
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